the fine art of growing old apart

I haven’t mastered
destiny without
the mess,
these complex
algorithms
made in jest.

I’m not alone, but
dust collects.

Fruits of our labour out of season,
but the workhorse trods on,
no rhyme or
reason except
somewhere at this long con’s end is
an apex of reaping.

No part of
me is leaving yet
but I’m destitute,
like making love the
first time still
fully dressed.

Master the fine
art of growing
old apart,
they said
and the
rest will learn to

stand the
test of time.

Won’t be a day too soon.

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2 thoughts on “the fine art of growing old apart

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